Treacherous
by Grimm Dolly
Summary: A once-orphaned Gothamite comes home only to have her world turned on itself. Adaptation is hard, but even harder when you don't know who you are anymore. And the thing about mirrors is that they'll never lie to you. M for language, adult themes
1. Homecoming

The penthouse was empty. Again. The bed untouched, no trail of clothing, no steam from the bathroom or the smell of cologne. Even the carpet looked new and undisturbed. This was day three that Alfred suspected he'd find Bruce passed out in his underground hideaway. _If Master Wayne hasn't gotten a proper night's sleep, he may not enjoy his surprise,_ thought the butler to himself, swiftly turning from the room. Down the stairs, and on his way out of the penthouse, a warm basket of food bedside him in his car, Alfred looked thoughtfully at the letter nestled delicately atop the warm container…

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Oh, moving hurt. There was stiffness in his neck that threatened him with a sharp pain and a dizzy spell should he move too quickly. Opening his eyes, Bruce saw a pair of crazed, acid green ones peering back at him. A smile of carved flesh grinned, happy he was finally awake. Silent laughter. Bruce Wayne's first instinct was to lash out. Punch that face until every bone within it shattered under the pressure of his fists. But then the realization came: He was staring at his own computer monitor, and there was a soft clearing of the throat coming from somewhere behind him.

That's right. This was just a video. A video of the Joker's break-out from Arkham. He was loose on Gotham again, and Bruce was all too keen on the kind of devastation the madman could cause. The havoc he liked to wreak on people's lives. All he could take away from someone just so he could watch the city go up in flames. The memory of just a few months previous brought a wealth of emotions to the waking man. Anger. Sorrow. An empty kind of pain. They made him quake, and he'd almost forgotten someone else was there until the soft, resounding sound came again.

"Alfred," Bruce said, somewhat hoarse and sounding much like a child caught out of bed on Christmas Eve. "I meant to go to bed…"

Dutifully, the butler placed the warm, now uncovered, tray before the man, shaking his head. A pleasant smile smoothed his face.

"No matter, Master Wayne. Are you going to go see her?"

"What are you talking about?"

"If you paid a little more attention to the good news in Gotham, sir, and a little less to the bad, you'd know _who_ I was talking about." A few expert taps to the computer's keys and an article shot up onto the screen, covering the grainy video of the Joker's bloody escape from his prison. The picture accompanying the article nearly caused Bruce to topple his breakfast from his lap and right onto the cement floor.

"Is that…?"

"Yes, sir. She's come home."

On the screen was a picture of a woman Bruce hadn't seen in ten years. Not since her haughty departure from Gotham City at the age of seventeen. Her hair was a pale white-blonde, so icy it looked as though it were platinum. It nearly matched the porcelain hue of her delicate skin. Large, almond-shaped eyes stared at him, the same color as springtime Violets, and her plump lips curled up in the corners. She looked like the devilish little imp she was years ago, although more polished. More elegant. Her appearance now, as it was back then, was astonishingly breathtaking.

"Master Wayne," interrupted Alfred. "There _is_ an article, as well…" Bruce gave him a look that clearly told the man to hush, but he only chuckled and watched as his employer's eyes scanned the lengthy story.

"She's performing in Gotham's Opera House all week? I should go. It says the seats are all sold out, th-…" Bruce trailed off, seeing the envelope with his name on it in a smooth scrawl. From it, he pulled a note. Tucked inside that was a pair of tickets, reserving the two balcony seats just to the left of the main stage. Smiling, he turned his eyes to the paper that had housed the tickets.

_Bruce,_

_Hoping this reaches you in high spirits! _

_I wanted to invite you to my Opening Night – I hope you can make it. _

_Bring Alfred with you! I do miss you both and hope you haven't forgotten me. _

_If you do come, sneak backstage after the show, and we'll go somewhere for dinner. _

_My treat, Hotshot! I called it!_

_Caroline D._

Forgotten her? No. Bruce just never thought she'd come back to Gotham. Not after the ugliness. Her adoptive family's treatment of her, his own coldness when she said she wanted more for herself than a poor housewife's life. She wanted to be a star, bright as one in the night sky out in the country. _And look at you now,_ he thought, staring at her picture again, noting her high, cat-like cheekbones. She looked like a doll. Something so perfect you'd be afraid of breaking her. Oh, but most didn't know how tough she was. The tomboy at school, never afraid to scuff her knees or get a little dirty. He wondered how she'd changed.

"You're right, Alfred," Bruce stated as he placed the note back in its envelope, the scent of a spicy perfume reaching his nose.

"Sir?"

"I need to start paying more attention to the good things happening to Gotham…"


	2. When Angels Whisper

"Are you nervous, Miss Davis?" A soft, smiling voice inquired, peeking around the curtain to a make-up table, where sat a breathtaking woman. She turned her large eyes on the source and a bright smile lit her face as she bounded from her seat, taking the elderly man into her arms. He smelled of a dark cologne that was so familiar to her, although distant. Like a fond memory she'd almost forgotten to remember of a loved one long since passed. But here he was, hugging her back and chuckling at her in a most peculiar way. "I see I've been missed!"

"Oh, Alfred! You look wonderful. How are you?"

"I'm well, Caroline. Well groomed, well fed, well trained…" Smiling, Alfred listened to the warm, infectious giggle of the woman before him. She still sounded like that little girl always helping Bruce get into trouble. She had something of a wild-streak in her, back then.

"Glad Bruce is being so good to you… And you to him, I'm sure!" She'd had to add that last bit in there upon seeing the butler raise his brow at her questioningly. "Where is he, anyway? Didn't he come with you?" For a moment, she looked crestfallen, and Alfred patted her shoulder, smiling in that gentle, understanding way of his.

"He'll be along after the show. I think he's a bit gun-shy, my dear. You'll be kind to him, won't you?"

Carol giggled again when Alfred winked at her and she blatantly crossed her fingers, saying, "I'll be on my best behavior! Honest, Alfred!"

"That's a girl." The older man patted her cheek and kissed her forehead when she hugged him again, her perfume reminding him of a black, wild orchid. _Exotic, like her,_ he thought. Then, saying goodbye, he left her to get ready for her show, stepping through the gaggle of people pouring into the main seating area of the Opera House. Laughing to himself, he knew without even inquiring that this was definitely not going to have anything to do with _opera_…

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This is definitely not opera.

This is better. The acoustics of this place are incredible, and that woman… Her voice carries like an angel's whisper! Or so I've heard. Angels would never whisper to me. If they did, I'd question their holiness… Oh, look! The curtain's lifting! There she is. She's as beautiful as the picture in the paper. Skin so fair the sun might burn her instantly. Hair like spun silver. And that dress. That dress is the killer. It holds her like a glove from the waist up, but then it fans out, trailing behind her like a wintry breeze. It's the same color as snow, and just as glowing. The lights make her blinding! She's ethereal.

Maybe she's an angel. And maybe she's whispering to me after all.

I can hear her voice carrying to me, all the way in the dark, back corner of this building. So close, like she's simply whispering in my ear, like a lover would. There are no speakers, no microphone, with which to enhance the sound. This is just the power of her voice, the crystal clear way her words seem to lull me into a false sense of singularity. As if I'm here all alone with this extraordinary girl. Just us.

We're not alone though. There are … People. All around us. _Normal_ people, _civilized_ people. Or, that's what they call themselves. They're no more civilized than I am. They're no more normal than myself, or that incredible thing up on the wood-paneled stage. She's moving like a vine, there's a haze in the air. Or maybe it's just in my eyes. She's making something stir within me. An idea. A need. A familiar feeling that Arkham and his subordinates tried to crush from my skull. This insatiable urge to make a point to this city. To relieve it of its blind state and make it see the reality around them!

She's singing something different, now. Something more powerful, but still heavenly. Unearthly. I can see her face, the heart shape of it, the delicate way her make-up's been applied. I wonder if she did it herself. Maybe I can get a tip or two from her…HahaHA!

Ah… Her face. There's more to it. It's so… _Perfect._ I can't _stand_ that! She reminds me of a doll I saw once. A fragile little thing made out of glass, and painted just so _perfectly_! Its eyes, like hers, would follow you everywhere. Watch you when you didn't want to be watched, forever giving you that pouty little painted frown. Forever trying to see right through you into the most private reaches of your mind. Dead eyes, staring.

Hers, though. _Hers_. They aren't dead eyes. I can see the fire in them, that _spark_. That _need_ to be different, set apart from the normalization of society. And, oh, she's succeeding alright. There's nothing about her that's normal. She's like me, in a polar opposite way. I represent the ugly truth. The truth that you're not safe, you can't trust anybody, and that just when you think you're sane, you're not! I'm the truth that no one wants to see, no one wants to acknowledge. If they pretend I'm not here, their world is so much prettier. Their lives are so much easier. Until I come around the corner from nowhere and remind them that I can't be ignored and expected to go away.

Now, this… This doll. This angelic woman with the doll's face. She reminds them of the beautiful, the pretty, the glorious. Those are the lies. And they just eat it up! Look at them now, transfixed as she sings in French of meadows in Summer and laughter through Autumn trees. Ha! I don't even think half of these people understand the song, but they love its beautiful lie all the same. The lies give them hope, something to believe in. This is what they want to keep around. The rational beauty of life, that isn't rational at all if you think about it. Rationality doesn't exist in non-existence… It's quite simple, really.

No, she's a lie. And as the truth, it's my job to expose the lie for how ugly it really is. How much _uglier_ it is than me. And how, if I'd only be listened to once in a while, they could come to accept the truth so much easier. Anarchy is the way of life. Peacefulness is long since forgotten.

The point is that _she_ is _me._

You'll understand tomorrow.

She's my next… _example._


	3. It's The Fear

"Dinner's been wonderful," Carol said softly, her face illuminated by an overhead lamp made to look like a lantern on an old-world ship. It rocked softly for seemingly no reason, but no one complained – it set the mood of the restaurant. Classy, on-board dining. If you looked long enough, sometimes you really thought you were rocking on soft waves. The spell was broken however, when a waitress brought them both a Caribbean Coffee brew, 'on the house'. "Haven't been out much since Rachel, Bruce?"

"Not really. How did you know?" He was caught off-guard, his face suddenly weary and tired. He looked much older than Carol knew he was, and she frowned at him tenderly, shaking her head. She'd heard about poor Rachel when she was spending some time in Atlantic City. News spread like wildfire of the crazy man attacking Gotham. One of the people on the death roll was Rachel Dawes. She was older than Carol, though not by much, and they'd been good friends once upon a time. It was a shame, really, that her life ended in such a way.

"I read it in the Atlantic City Press one night after a show," the blonde stated slowly, catching herself when her voice began to crack. She'd sat up the whole night crying and showed up for rehearsal at Paw Prints, a local night club, a complete wreck the next day. A pot of coffee and a lot of heavy makeup later, she was up in lights all over again, singing sad songs that really tore at her heart for once. "I'm so sorry, Bruce. You loved her even before I left Gotham."

"She was engaged to someone else." Was that bitterness? No. Resigned acceptance…

"Dent, right? Him too…" She frowned, pawing at one of her smooth, pale cheeks with perfectly manicured fingers, painted a white opal color. "I heard he was something of a 'White Light' to Gotham. He even copped to being Batman?" The raising of her brow told Bruce all too clearly that she already knew and he sighed, thinking once again that his alter ego was going to be his downfall one day. But he'd never give it up. He couldn't.

"Mind explaining that one, Caroline?"

Laughter. She had the most infectious laughter. Bruce even smiled now, looking more his thirty-five years rather than forty-five. "Of course. You own most of this city. You practically own the people, Bruce. No one could be the Batman under your nose and not get caught. Except, of course, for you. Besides, I've seen news coverage. I know you like the back of my tongue."

"I should have known. You were in college for human studies and chemistry as majors, right?" It clicked now. She knew him well enough to know the very way he stood. She could probably detect his presence just by the angle of his leg or the stiffness of his shoulders. He was glad no one else in the city was so proficient with human idiosyncrasies. "So, you got me. What do I have to pay you to keep quiet?"

She smiled, and so did he. Like that was even a question.

"It's really great to see you, Bruce." Carol reached over, patting his hand. "I'm due to leave for Paris again at the end of the week, but I promise to be back soon. Mind if I give you a call?"

"That would be great. Alfred will be glad to hear from you again." Me too. "How about dinner with me at the penthouse tomorrow night? Alfred's dying to grill. But you know how he gets. I would need three of me to eat all that."

Laughing again, she nodded, her curling, platinum hair feathering over her shoulders. Her eyes shimmered softly under her dark eyelashes. "That would be wonderful! It's been so long. I miss Alfred's hamburgers. If I weren't so full already, I'd be drooling." She almost giggled with excitement. At twenty-seven, she was certainly still enjoying her youth, and her spark of life certainly wasn't diminished any.

"It's settled then. Let me walk you to your car?"

"No need. I walk. My apartment's just around the block."

"I could walk you," he offered, but the woman shook her head at him and gave him a gentle look that made it quite clear she was a big girl, willing to stick her high heel where it didn't belong if someone so much as looked at her funny.

"I'll see you tomorrow night, Bruce." Standing up, she walked around and kissed his cheek, the light warmth tickling his skin. "Same time." And then she left, leaving the billionaire to stare at his almost-empty mug, feeling a little strange. The air felt heavy. He wasn't used to being in female company anymore, after pining so hard. No wonder he practically quaked through the first ten minutes of dinner.

I need another drink…

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The cool air is kissing her. Touching her. Making her look like she's floating on invisible wings as she walks. She knows that alleyway's dangerous tonight, as every other night, but she's unafraid. She moves, like a fallen seraphim, through the darkness, under flickering lights and past littered ground, never seeming to touch it at all. I've got an infatuation with her, now, in just a few hours' time. I can't get her out of my head. Her voice, her eyes. The way I could have sworn she looked directly at me for minutes at a time. The way I was sure she was singing to me.

This is what makes her dangerous. She's making me crazy! Making me paranoid in ways I never thought I could be. She makes the voices quiet down, leaving only her gentle humming in their wake. The silence is unbearable! My ideas, my drive, everything that makes me me! She brings it to a screeching halt and replaces it with a calm breeze that carries her hair with it. I can almost smell it. Fresh and clean. Her skin would be exotic – the feel, the taste. Her voice, too – the sounds I know her throat could make.

There it is again! The distraction! I'm all for distractions, but only when the work for me, not against me. And you see, these are really working against me. I can't think straight! I can't follow a single track without leading into something entirely opposite of the point I began at. Like the way her hair would look sprawled out across a dark pillowcase, her body long and silhouetted by soft sheets. Moonlight the only thing illuminating her and making her glow.

Then I come in. Mar her pretty body with mine, capture her sounds with my mouth and somehow bottle them for later listening. Feel her skin crawling against mine, her life's fluid warming my frame, chilled from night air. How her knees could best be parted and perked, and the greatest method for making the prettiest lines across her flesh. Fingertips or knives? That… is the question. Oh, and how I imagine her writhing, the heat tumbling off her in waves, and I become completely unsure of whether it's torture or ecstasy for her.

This is where my thoughts go, even now, watching her with a frown on my ever-grinning face. Her hips sway with the wind, as if they are what is guiding it to lift the tresses of her hair and make them dance. I can see her glow in the alley, just begging for someone to make the most of her appearance there. But still she looks so confident. Not like the others who come through here. The grown men who always look over their shoulders, praying not to meet a shady character or two. Muggers and murderers. Crazies and rapists. They all live here, and yet she walks like an untouchable, unbreakable goddess. Her face set like a china-doll, curious and unafraid of being dropped and cracked.

Or, it looked like that until now. She's seen me, and I see something in her eyes. Recognition. She knows my face. Then again, who doesn't? Haha… Everyone in Gotham, even the newest know me. It's only been a day or three since Arkham got its wake-up call. I'm all over their news, the 'clown freak' who's escaped. Considered armed and dangerous. Dangerous with arms? Blah blah blah, who cares?

My only concern right now is the way my little doll is looking at me. Her long legs poised to run beneath her new blue dress, shimmering in the flickering light. Her hands are clenched, prepared to fight if she must. She's feisty! I like that in a woman. It really gets me going… But never like this. Not so much that even now she's distracting me from what I wanted to do. I'm almost having second thoughts. But if I'm going to do what I aim to, she needs to be out of the picture. Ruined and broken.

"Hell-o there, dollface." I can see her tensing up, suddenly scowling. Oh, that scowl! It could make my toes curl if I didn't need them to stand. "I just noticed you were all by yourself and couldn't help but wonder if you… uh… if you know it's dangerous… out here… at night. Like now." I've stepped toward her, and she's stepped back. But she'd forgotten there's a dumpster behind her. Another two steps and she finds it, glowering at me even more, like it's my fault she forgot she'd passed it on her way in!

"Now, now, dolly. Don't look so mad. I just wanted to warn you… There's bad people out here." My hand is behind her head, and she doesn't even flinch. I'm just fixed with that stare. Those dark eyes boring into me like fire, making my skin prickle delightfully. My blood is pumping. The knife in my pocketed hand is making me itch, and as I remove it, I find strong fingers around my wrist. Hers. For such slender hands, she's got a mighty grip!

"You don't want to do that," she whispers, and for the first time, I detect it. Fear. I heard it in her voice. It was hidden so well behind a confident determination that I almost missed it. But it was there! For just an instant. And now I know. She's like all the others. She's terrified of me. Petrified. She's wanted to run for minutes now and just couldn't do it out of fear. It froze her. And suddenly, I've lost my infatuation. It's all business again. The ideas are back, the raging thoughts. I've forgotten my earlier misgivings and my arm wrenches from hers, cutting deeply into her palm. She yelps and closes her eyes.

"You wanna know how I got these scars, dolly?" I press the knife to her mouth too hard, nicking the corners. Small drops of blood pool there, and I can see them slide away on either side of her chin, dropping near the 'V' of her chest. Staining her. It's gotten her attention, though, and her eyes snap open. There it is. The fear… The thing I thought she didn't have any of. Boy, was I wrong for once. "I used to be like you. A performer." Same old show-and-tell. Different toy, different scene.

"I was working for minimum wage as an 'extra' when I finished my stage play. It was gonna make me big! A star! My name would be in lights all over! Well, I showed it to my manager. Then, he owned the Opera House – the very place you sang tonight, my little angel. He took it from me, said he'd call a buddy and get back to me. A month later, I went back, angry as hell, and demanded my script back. Well, guess what?"

I'm laughing, and it's bothering her, I can see it. "He says it's not mine! He calls his bodyguard thugs and they drag me out… Right back here! Right where you're standing, doll. And guess what else? They tell me I'm lucky they'll let me live. But as a parting gift, they stuck a knife in my mouth. Each of them. One pulled one way, and the other did the opposite." I make the motions as I say this, my own knife trailing my long-since-made scars. Her bothered state is changing, but I can't see to what. Sympathy? I've never gotten that one before.

"They left me in a dumpster, much like this one, piled on top of trash like that's where I belonged. Needless to say, that was the end of my career. I could never go back to acting. I couldn't do any kind of public service. No one wanted to look at me. I couldn't afford the right surgeries. You know what I did? I sewed up my mouth myself with some old black thread and let them heal over time. And you see where that got me? Now, I'm just a freak…"

The knife is back on her mouth, pressing into the marks I've already made. I can see it hurts her, but her eyes are clouding, getting hazed. Like she's about to cry or pass out. I hope not. I want to enjoy this. "You, dolly, are just like me. Easy on the eyes, bubbly, and full of laughter! You remind me so much of me in fact," I say, laughing more, loudly, "that I just can't stand you! You're so perfect! You're idolized and placed too high for what you really are! You just whore yourself out to those who are willing to eat the prettiness you feed them. The act. The lie… You deserve to be my first example."

And then, razor quick, my arm moves and cuts right across, carving her from one cheek to another. Instantly, the redness rushes from her mouth and she drops like a rock, falling onto a trash bag with her back against the dirty brick wall. She doesn't look like she belongs there, but she'll be dead soon. Then, no one will have to watch her suffer. She'll have already done it. Poor little thing. If only she hadn't lied to me too…

Oh, but what's this? She's looking at me. Staring, actually. Her eyes are so dark they look black. And her mouth is shut tight, though the muscle has been cut. She's not afraid anymore, and she's certainly not angry. She looks more like a doll than ever now, though broken, forgotten. Her eyes are dying, becoming dull and lifeless. They are still staring at me as I back away into shadow, and though I know she can't see me, I feel her eyes are right on my heart, peering into it and reading everything private. They are cold, dead eyes, and they see me!

Poor, Dollface…

Just when I thought you couldn't haunt me anymore today, you go and prove me wrong…

I hope I don't miss you too much.

Ha. Ha. Ha.


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